life, death, love and other forms of poetry by alcoholic poet

You're alright, he said. In a voice that vacuumed all our steps out of the rug. Combing his fingers through my well conditioned hair there was the rumble of lust. Fetal and secure in an empty bed.

Earlier we'd crossed the street from his car and met at the corner. To dine like strangers. Familiarity poured between our toes like concrete left to dry. Making us lovers. On Sunday's. And any time the worlds we cultivated had little use for us.

Shoving our fingers into those leaky dykes. Staving off floods with chewing gum.

Turing the corner on the year in the soft slippers time expressed. While it sat at its drafting board so determined to win our awe. Relentlessly playing the architect to our wrecking ball.

You're alright without me, he said.

The clock boasting pages blank enough. To claim them as my own. Tomorrow nothing more than an abadoned swing aching on a pallid playground.

I am in so much pain...happy new year to me. He let me go because he loves his addiction more. And now I am ill without anything to ease my pain. No hope, nothing will change, just a life to be endured, not lived.

Thank you...I am very sincere. I appreciate your response. I hurt like hell, to be cast aside for a lover in a bottle. I am pissed that I have nothing with which to wash my pain down. His resolution was to never see me again. And yet, he calls me the love of his life. I am running out of endurance.

I have been following your writing for a long time. You are so, so talented. Best of luck to you...